


The Adventure with the Scars

by Giroshane



Series: Gravity Falls Adventures [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6362740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giroshane/pseuds/Giroshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the hottest day in Oregon, which means no sweater for Ford. In being exposed he learns he has more in common with Mabel than previously thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure with the Scars

His sweater was acquired in dimension 227, after his button down shirt and tie (which had already been fairly torn and soiled) had been burned away in dimension 78-Ω. He was lucky he had salvaged his coat after that incident, but nonetheless he was still stuck hobbling through the obsidian wasteland of 227 with nothing but his tattered coat over his bare, wounded chest.

Correction: obsidian _radioactive_ wasteland.

Not fun.

And, like most of his escapades throughout thirty years of various dimensions, _luck_ saved his ass then, a group of scavengers (“Scavvers” they called themselves) quickly shoving a gas-mask onto his face and an incredibly heavy lead coat around his shoulders. Once he had been taken to safety and explanations had been swapped, he had been treated for his wounds and he helped the small colony of humans--who lived underground now due to the radioactivity above--build a sustainable source of light. As such, the sweater had been a thank you gift. It had also been a farewell gift, as he had managed to find a natural universe rift in a deep cavern off of the main compound.

The sweater was thick and soft, but lightweight and strong; it was resistant to several kinds and strengths of lasers, blades, and even bullets; it absorbed and reflected his body heat when it was too cold and it wicked away his sweat when it was too hot; it was hydrophobic and self-cleaning, meaning it never had to be washed; it was even _self-repairing_ , the fabric weaved with primitive yet incredibly complex circuitry that tugged torn threads back together. All in all, it was the most advanced armor Ford had ever come across during his years dimension-hopping.

And yet. And _yet_. It kept him cool in the hottest temperatures _and yet_ here Ford was, sweating his goddamn ass off and feeling like melted wax.

Could temperatures in Oregon even reach this high? Even in August? It didn’t matter--they just _were_. And it was _awful_. And now Ford was glaring at his reflection in the mirror, and the sweater in his hands, and bemoaning the fact that he was not going to be able to survive anything with long sleeves or a turtleneck today.

It’s not like he didn’t own any other shirts. Stan had kept most of if not all of Ford’s clothes, although after thirty years not much had survived the mothballs of the attic--and of those that did survive he could only fit into very few anymore--or felt comfortable wearing. And of those that survived, that he could fit into, _and_ that he felt comfortable wearing (and that was a stretch), none of them covered his neck or his arms very well.

Of course, he could always raid Stan’s closet--Stan had offered that on more than one occasion. But the idea of wearing Stan’s clothes again sent shivers up and down his spine.

_“Don’t do it Ford, it’ll destroy the universe!” Don’t do it Stan, it’ll destroy your mind, please, I just got you back, I can’t lose you again._

_“It’s the only way.”_

No. He wasn’t going to wear Stan’s clothes again anytime soon. They hardly fit him anyway.

In the end he managed to find a white collared shirt to wear. It was cotton, thankfully, and so wasn’t as sweltering to wear as his sweater, and thick enough to not be see-through. He could even button the shirt up to his throat and keep his sleeves rolled down. He wouldn’t deny that he looked a little too formal like that, and he would still be rather hot but he’d take formality and sweatiness over exposure any day.

He entered the kitchen just as Dipper appeared to be leaving.

“Good morning, Dipper.”

“Morning, Grunkle Ford!” The boy was hurriedly double-checking the contents of his backpack.

“Going somewhere?” Ford asked as he started up the coffee machine (cross fingers he got it right this time; honestly he had handled technology far more complex but it was always the more primitive devices that gave him trouble now).

“Yeah! Wendy and I are going hiking in the woods behind her house. She thinks she might have found a cave system the other day and she wants to check it out.” Dipper said excitedly, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. Ford’s gut immediately twinged with worry. It must have shown on his face, because Dipper reassured him.

“Don’t worry, I have the panic button you made for me in case of an emergency, and we have our phones, and Wendy is like, super-strong. She took down the Shapeshifter. We’ll be fine!”

Ford had to give him that; Wendy Corduroy had explained to him herself how she and Dipper had taken down the shifter (although Dipper seemed to maintain that Wendy was the one who really stopped it). The story had made his jaw drop, and since then he’d had a certain amount of respect for the otherwise lazy teen. She certainly was her father’s daughter.

“Is Mabel going with you?” He asked. Dipper shook his head.

“No, I think she’s still asleep? She’s probably doing stuff with Waddles today.” Dipper answered. He jumped as his phone vibrated. “Oh! That must be Wendy! Gotta run! See you later!”

“Stay safe, Dipper!” Ford called as the boy ran off and out the door. He huffed out a laugh at the boy’s affirming yell. The intelligence, that always reminded Ford of himself, but the thirst for adventure? God, that was Stan, pure and simple.

Ford hummed quietly as he prepared a small breakfast for himself. Normally he wouldn't have eaten at all, likely until he gorged himself at dinner, but Stan had noticed that habit right away and put a stop to it. A symptom of starvation, Stan had explained; the body was unused to having a constant source of food so it experienced hunger in fasting/overeating cycles. On one hand, Ford was happy to have been saved from a possible hospital visit, but at the same time, it pained him to no end that Stanley _knew_ that information off the top of his head. Ford had pressed at the time, but Stan had shrugged it off, stating that he couldn't remember exactly how he knew, but he was fairly certain he’d had a few rough patches where the knowledge saved his life.

It didn't matter. Ford knew how Stan knew, and every time he remembered it just sent guilt, guilt, and more _guilt_ coursing through him. His brother did his best to put a stop to that too though, constantly echoing the “mistakes, shmistakes,” line he had remembered and clung to. It seemed like Stan just wanted to move on. Ford felt like he was mired in his past.

...It would be a while before they were on perfectly sound footing again.

If Ford listened over the sound of the coffee machine, he could actually hear the TV in the other room. Stan was spending the too too hot day melting in front of the TV. And griping about it. Ford made a mental note to offer the basement lab to Stan--it was much cooler down there. But the note was almost entirely forgotten when he heard the toaster go off.

In the end, Ford actually spent the whole morning in the kitchen. For the past few days he had been trying to catch up on all the pop culture he had missed, and right now he was focusing on literature. At first he had taken recommendations from Dipper (he did find _Jurassic Park_ relatable, if not entertaining in a morbid sense, and _Good Omens_ was vastly amusing), but after reading the entirety of the _Twilight_ series at Mabel’s insistence, he decided to not ask the kids for recommendations anymore (obviously neither Edward _nor_ Jacob were right for Bella, Jacob imprinting on a child seemed massively inappropriate, not to mention the mass appropriation of a Native American culture in general, and the other vampires and their supernatural abilities were far more fascinating--although _sparkling_? _Really?_  Ford had laughed his ass off--but not in front of Mabel. He gave it as good of a review as he could possibly manage when she asked). He had attempted reading more Stephen King novels: _The Shining_ and _Firestarter_ had always been fascinating reads (although he had a few reservations about the latter now), but halfway through _Christine_ he decided otherwise. It was far too familiar to an altercation with Bill after his betrayal.

Since he enjoyed _Good Omens_ , he had been bouncing back and forth between Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. This morning was spent consuming _American Gods_ , and he found himself enjoying it--and, interestingly enough, relating to it. Ah, the many dimensions he had visited. For everything a man could dream up, there was a universe out there that encapsulated it.

Staying in the kitchen, however, meant staying in the heat; it wasn’t long before Stanford found himself slick with sweat. He was still too enraptured in his reading to fret about it much, he just unbuttoned his shirt low and rolled up his sleeves without a second thought.

And that was how Stan found him.

“Yeesh Ford, it’s already uncomfortable enough, but then ya gotta go sit in that chair? How long have ya been sittin’ there?” The man said, not unkindly. He hardly spared a glance his brother’s way before beginning to dig through the fridge. Ford glanced at the clock. Oh, it was almost noon.

“Um...I suppose all morning.” Ford answered. “This book is really good. I got distracted.”

“Of course. Only you’d be able to be distracted by the Gravity Falls Communal Roast by a book.” Stan huffed teasingly. That _finally_ reminded Ford of the offer he wanted to make.

“Stanley, if you’re too hot up here, you’re always welcome to go downstairs behind the vending machine. It’s much cooler down there, being underground and all.” He said. Stanley grunted as cans and jars clattered inside the fridge. After an awkward pause, he spoke slowly.

“Look, it’s...it’s not like I don’t appreciate the offer, Sixer. I’m sure it _is_ cooler down there. But...uh, I may not remember everything about whatever’s down there, but it...what I do remember...it just gives me the _creeps_. So, uh, I’m just gonna stay up here, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh no, not at all.” Ford shook his head. “I completely understand! There...there aren’t a lot of pleasant memories down there, I understand why it would creep you out.”

“If it’s cooler like you say, why aren’t _you_ down there?” Stan’s head popped up from behind the fridge door, already a chunk of sandwich in his mouth and the rest of it in his hand.

“...Same reason, I suppose.” Ford sighed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Well, I mean, it’s hidden behind a vending machine? That already kinda b-builds--builds an--an--a-aura of...” Stan suddenly stuttered, trailing off into silence. Ford looked up at him with concern.

“Stanley, are you alright?”

Stan was staring at him, eyes wide and expression unreadable. For a moment. Then Ford realized exactly _where_ Stan was staring. And then the emotions flitting across his brother’s face were easily recognizable. The silence in the room thickened. Out of instinct Stanford clutched the front of his shirt together. The reaction was immediate: Stan slammed the fridge shut and began to stalk back towards the living room.

“Stan don’t.” Ford rose to his feet, reaching out to his brother, exposed scars be damned.

“Don’t what?” Stan said gruffly, not stopping. “I do like _watching_ Baby Fights, ya know.”

“Stan, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about!” Ford chased after him, grabbing his hand and spinning him around. Stan’s features were still consumed by guilt and anger; anger at himself, guilt for Ford.

Ford softened.

“They’re not your fault, Stanley.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan said, just to get Ford to leave him alone, Ford knew. Stan pulled his hand out of Ford’s grip and turned away, but Ford wasn’t going to let him escape that easily. He ran in front of his twin, blocking him from the living room. Stan glowered.

“Move.”

“No. Stanley, you shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened to me over there.” Ford insisted.

“Why not?” Stan growled. “I’m the one who pushed you into that portal.”

“Wha--I thought you didn’t--”

“I said I didn’t remember _everything_ , not that I didn’t remember the worst of it.” Stan spat. “I attacked you, I shoved you in, I--”

“ _Stop_.” Ford commanded, frustration darkening his tone. Stanley did listen, thankfully, but Ford could feel the irritation (and under that, still the anger and guilt) radiating off his brother.

“Stanley, at the time, did you know how the portal worked?” He asked firmly. Stan met his gaze rebelliously, before breaking and looking away.

“No.” He grumbled.

“Did you know what was on the other side of the portal?” Ford asked, crossing his arms.

“No, but--”

“Did you have any idea what would happen when you pushed me, when you were angry and wounded and as far as you were concerned, acting out of self-defense?”

“Ford--”

“ _Did you have any idea_?”

Stan glared at him.

“No.” The word fell from his lips like a stone.

“No, no you didn’t. You didn’t because I didn’t tell you, and that’s _my_ fault. It was an accident, Stan.” Ford sighed. It didn’t soothe Stan at all.

“Yeah, and look at the consequences, huh?” He snapped, grabbing one of Ford’s wrists and shaking it. The ire faded to sadness. “Ford, your _skin_ is _patchwork_.”

Well...Stan wasn’t wrong about that. Scars in all shapes lashed across his skin--claws, teeth, knives, bullets, lasers, acid, fire, ink...his skin had been marked by them all. Hell, curling around and past his elbow of the arm Stan was holding out on display were sucker marks. Stan’s hand was holding his wrist right below the freshest scars--the ones that had been dug into his skin by manacles and electric currents. And even those were simply layered over the other scars around his wrist before that, where rope tied too tight had chafed his skin raw. There wasn’t an inch of his skin unblemished anymore; the last of his clear skin was fractured by faint Lichtenberg figures now, thanks to the aforementioned electric currents. No, the only thing spared from marring was his face--and he counted himself lucky for that (although it was arguably untrue: there was a scar or two that his hair grew over, one behind his left ear, a faint one across the right corner of his mouth, and when he focused in the mirror he could still see the scar across his forehead from where the metal plate had been inserted).

“There’s so much that wouldn’t have happened to you if I hadn’t been such an idiot.” Stan murmured, letting Ford’s wrist slip out of his grip.

“I can say the same exact thing about you, Stanley.” Ford replied; he didn’t let Stan pull away completely, instead holding his hand. Stan tried to tug away from the hold.

“Yeah, except I don’t have a fucking _blast scar_ in the center of my chest.” Stan hissed, voice breaking. Ford frowned, free hand flying to the spot in question. Only about half of it was showing, a nasty remnant from a nasty time that nearly saw both of his lungs collapse.

After thinking for a moment, he smiled. It wasn’t necessarily happy, but there was a firm acceptance to it.

“Stanley, if I could go back in time and fix all my mistakes, make it so we never fought, I never lost you and you never lost me, I’d do so in a heartbeat. If given the chance I would gladly make it so I never got sucked into the portal. But...I can’t. Just like I can’t change anything that happened over there. But some things I wouldn’t want to change. This blast scar,” He tapped it lightly, “I would get it again and again shielding that small family trapped in the middle of a war zone.”

He smile widened a little as he thought of the youngest of the group, her furred, spindly fingers entwining with his own as she thanked him and begged him to keep breathing.

His fingers danced around scars laced around his neck. The freshest one still stung, but beneath that were others.

“I was already scarred here before Bill, but I suppose I wouldn’t have scarred so badly if I had just cut myself free and ran. But I couldn’t leave the rest behind. I dragged the entire damn chain gang to safety with me first. I had to.

“And this one, these claw marks?” He pointed to them on his forearm; they were wide and thick. “Why, these were from saving you, Stanley. You from a different universe. A gryphon was bearing down on you and I jumped in the way.

“I’ve also got tattoos, although most of them were out of necessity: sigils or wards, to prevent possession or injury, schematic plans for a heist, a few codes when I was doing espionage work in dimension 32-Y, a bit of circuitry here and there, hamsas...although I suppose those were more for sentiment than protection...some are brands, unfortunately, but I--uh--I s-scratched them out.

“And hell, some of these you _can’t_ blame yourself for. One of these things is because I forgot how reactive sodium is. _Me_. Forgetting _basic_ _chemistry_. I’ve got quite a few burn scars on my legs from spilling hot coffee all over myself, both here _and_ beyond the portal. There’s one on my hip from sledding in college with Fiddleford, when we crashed into a tree. Some are from my experiments here in Gravity Falls! Like this one--”

“Stop! _Stop_.” Stan practically yelled. It snapped Ford out of his reminiscing and brought his attention back to his brother. Oh. Oh no. The man looked on the verge of tears.

“Don’t say it like you were _glad_ you got trapped over there.” He snarled. “I don’t care how selfish that sounds.”

“Stan, I’m _not_ glad.” Ford said gravely. “Didn’t I just say I’d change it all in a heartbeat if I could? There are plenty of these scars I wish I didn’t have, plenty that are hard to look at, that I _can’t_ look at. What I’m trying to tell you is that whether they’re good or bad, I _accept_ them. They’re a part of me now, and sure, I don’t like to expose myself, because I get more stares than I do for my fingers alone and I don’t want to alarm anyone; and yes, a lot of them still hurt. Some days are really hard. But I’m not angry about them, and I sure as hell don’t blame you for them, and you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Stan was looking away; Ford cupped his cheeks, forcing him to make eye contact.

“Every single one of these scars were and are out of your control. Do try to remember that.”

The look Stan gave him was positively mopey. Ford decided on a different route.

“Except for this one.” He deadpanned, tapping a scar on his left collarbone. “This one will always be your fault.”

The desired reaction was achieved.

“Hey! You _asked_ me to toss up the screwdriver.” Stan fired indignantly.

“Yes, not _throw_ it. You don’t throw screwdrivers like _throwing knives_ when you’re _passing_ them to people.”

“Bah, you were fine.” Stan scoffed, crossing his arms.

“I fell off the mast yard. Your fault."

"Not!"

"Is."

"No."

"Always."

"Nope."

"It's the only one you're allowed to blame yourself for."

“I refuse.”

“Fine then. Guess you can’t blame yourself for any of them then.” Ford grinned cheekily with a shrug. He turned and began to saunter back to the kitchen. Stan spluttered behind him, caged by his brother’s words.

“Wha--you--but-- _you_ \--you’re a goddamn _nerd_ , ya know that, right!?” Stan snapped after him finally, shaking his fist. Ford laughed and pivoted, tugging his collar a little bit to show off the small tattoo of Saturn in the hollow of his right collarbone.

“Whatever gave you the idea, Lee?” He cackled. Stan groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“Go, go be a nerd!” Stan waved his hands in a shooing motion. “I'm gonna go be a normal human being in the family room.”

Ford continued to laugh as they went their separate ways, willing to let Stan have the last word. Inwardly he hoped the light note the conversation had ended on was evidence that he had gotten through to his brother. He couldn't stand the idea of Stan torturing himself over something Ford had long ago realized wasn't his fault.

It wasn't like he had abandoned Ford for ten years without a second thought, never lifting a finger to reach out or talk until it was far too late. No, Stan had dropped everything (even if that everything wasn’t much--which again, _your fault, your fault_ ) and devoted his _life_ to rebuilding the portal, just for the slim chance of getting Ford back.

 _“Some brother you turned out to be_.”

Ford shook as if to dispel the shame settling in his bones; it didn’t work. Stiffly he went back to the kitchen table and sat, picking up the book. It took five re-reads of the same page before he had pushed it far back enough to be quiet. He wanted this day to be nice.

He had only just finished _American Gods_ when he heard Stan call up to Mabel.

“Mabel, honey, it’s way past lunch time, have you eaten at all today?”

He couldn’t hear the reply.

“Then you should come down and eat. Can’t have ya starving.” Stan said. Again Ford couldn’t hear Mabel’s answer, but Stan had, and whatever it was he had apparently deemed satisfactory, since he went back into the living room.

However, it was almost twenty minutes before Mabel finally trotted into the kitchen with a small bag over her shoulder, Waddles trailing obediently behind her. She grabbed a single banana and sat in the chair perpendicular to Ford’s with a hum. Waddles hopped up onto the chair next to hers with a snuffle.

“Afternoon, Mabel.” Ford greeted. Mabel smiled at him.

“Afternoon!” She chirped. Properly seated, she set her bag (and the banana) on the table and emptied its contents. Out rolled a few skeins of yarn, and a few straight knitting needles, as well as...some needles connected by wire? Interesting, Ford had never seen knitting needles like those before--granted, he’d never been that knowledgeable about yarn crafts to begin with, but still. He watched with thinly veiled curiosity as she selected a pair of needles and a skein of yarn, and began to cast on stitches.

“So what have you been up to, today?” Ford asked. Mabel, oddly, took a long moment to respond, but Ford attributed that to her apparent focus on her knitting.

“I’ve just been...been, uh, looking for patterns. Online. To knit, see?” She raised her knitting needles. Ford nodded in understanding.

“Hm. Anything interesting planned?”

“I’m...probably just a scarf. Maybe.” Mabel shrugged. “Something simple.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Ford smiled. Mabel returned it, but Ford could thank his paranoia for noticing something...off. It wasn’t that the smile was forced, but...it was empty. Like a mask.

“Are you alright, Mabel?” He asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Mabel said. “Just a little tired. I stayed up really late last night, working on Dipper’s birthday present.”

“Ah, I see.” Ford sat back, a little relieved. “Don’t wear yourself out too much, Mabel.”

“Pfft. I won’t.” Mabel scoffed as if the idea was laughable.

After that the two fell into a content silence: Ford picked up the next book on his list, _Night Watch_ , and settled down to read as Mabel continued to knit. It was not very long, however, before unease began to nag at Ford. At first he passed it off as just the paranoia from before; sometimes it felt like a living thing, a shadow in his thoughts that wouldn’t shut up. But as minutes ticked by, it was harder and harder for him to read. He glanced out of the corner of his eye. The first thing that caught his attention was Waddles: the pig had apparently stolen Mabel’s banana, and was enjoying his snack. If Ford remembered correctly, Mabel hadn’t eaten anything in a while...but she didn’t seem too put off by this. She wasn’t even focused on her knitting, Ford realized as he glanced more in her direction. Her needles were held loosely, and Ford was fairly certain she had dropped a stitch. But it was easy to see the reason why: she was staring--and Ford had no doubt as to where.

Yet she spoke before he could say anything:

“Can I touch them?”

It made him splutter.

“P-pardon?”

“Sorry! Sorry,” The girl immediately backtracked, panicking, “I just--I know I’ve seen them before and I never said anything but I’ve always wondered what they felt like because I’ve never seen so many and I--but I shouldn’t have asked it’s really rude and insensitive and I’m sorry--”

“Mabel! Mabel.” Ford halted her frantic rambling. “Calm down.”

“S-sorry…” She mumbled. She was practically _trembling_. Ford couldn’t help but be surprised: he had never seen Mabel so...timid. Was that even the word for it? Anxious? Either way, he didn’t like seeing it in Mabel.

“Mabel, do I look like I’m upset?” He smiled reassuringly. He waited until she shook her head. “You just took me by surprise, is all.”

She only stared at him like a sad puppy. He tried to keep from frowning, but concern still wormed its way into his expression.

“Mabel are you sure you’re alright?”

She nodded; Ford was dubious, but he decided to take her word for it for the time being.

“I didn’t realize you were so interested in my scars.” He said, feeling slightly bashful of all things. “I’m usually worried they’ll...scare you--or--or gross you out…”

“What? No!” Mabel gasped as if the idea was impossible. “They’re not gross at all!”

“...Really?”

“No!” She shook her head fervently. When she spoke next, her words were careful. “They...they show that you’ve been through a lot, yeah, but...they also show that you’re still here, don’t they?”

“I...yes. Yes they do.” Ford nodded, smiling a little.

“Then they’re...not gross.” Mabel returned the smile. There was something else in her eyes, when she said that, but Ford could never pride himself on his ability to read people.

“Thank you Mabel.” He leaned back in his seat. “And, like I said before, you only took me by surprise. You can touch them.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

He nodded. He laid his exposed forearm on the table, an open invitation. Mabel glanced between him and the arm for a second, as if she couldn’t believe the offer, before slowly setting down her knitting. Ford picked up his book with his free hand and kept reading, hoping the nonchalance would encourage her. He made sure not to stare, and didn’t jump when after a long pause, he felt small fingers grace along his skin. He smiled, and glanced at Mabel every now and then. She seemed completely enraptured: her fingers glided over the raised marks or dips in his skin ever-gently. It was almost ticklish, but Ford found it...soothing, in a way. It had been so long since he’d had physical contact with anyone that he cared about, sometimes it felt like water to a man trapped in a desert. It kept him grounded, and it made him feel... _here_. It made him feel known...and alive.

“They’re so pretty,” Mabel murmured as she traced over the Lichtenberg fractures, “But so...awful, too.”

“Even the worst things can have a beauty to them.” Ford allowed. Mabel didn’t respond, but he felt her touch move on.

“Are these teeth marks?” She asked, more curious than concerned. Ford glanced down and, recognizing the wound, he nodded.

“Yes...altercation with a zombie.”

“Oh, yeah, zombies are rough. We had to fight them last month; Dipper was trying to show off your journal to some secret agents.” Mabel nodded. She looked up to him. “Did you actually become a zombie? That happened to Soos, but we fixed him using the cure in the journal.”

“Well, I had to have discovered the cure to zombification somehow, didn’t I?” Ford’s mouth quirked up. “Luckily I had a...an old…” He tried to search for a fitting word, but gave up, “-- ‘friend’ who was visiting at the time who was a little more versed in chemistry than Fiddleford, who could help me find a cure as well as...restrain me, when I got too violent. That was how we discovered the three-part harmony method as well.”

“Cool. Eat any brains?” Mabel asked, giggling a little. Ford shook his head.

“Thankfully no,” He said, “Otherwise the effects would have been permanent.”

“Ooh! These look like cat scratches.” Mabel ran her finger over these next--fairly small--scars lightly.

“They are.” Ford shrugged. “Never trust something named Squanchy.”

“Hehe,” Mabel giggled at the name ( _oh if only she knew…_ ), “I’ll keep it in mind.”

She didn’t ask about any of his other scars after that (he wouldn’t have minded if she had, depending). Mabel simply ran her fingers over them, sometimes again and again, hardly ever more than gentle pressure. The soothing patterns of her hands on his skin lulled him; Ford settled into his book feeling serene. He barely even noticed it when she slowly turned his arm over, tracing the curving scar of a Heftlunk lash around his forearm. He didn’t notice when her hands suddenly stopped. He didn’t notice her small gasp.

Ford _did_ notice, however, when her fingers touched _those_ scars. Immediately he stiffened, every muscle going on high alert as his mind raced and raced. She couldn’t ask about those ( _goddammit_ how could he have _forgotten_ about them) she was too young to know about those, to know how low he’d become, how far he’d fallen, _don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask._

“Don’t ask about those.” Was all he managed, stiff as a statue. The hands withdrew, but his eyes chased after them. He didn’t mind their touch, not really, he just couldn’t stand the idea of Mabel asking him about the scars on his wrist.

“Mabel, it’s just--they--they…” He trailed off as he met Mabel’s eyes. They were wide, and scared, and shocked, but also...knowing. Like she recognized them, like she didn’t have to ask to know what they were.

But that wasn’t possible, was it?

She never broke his gaze as she raised her left arm, and pulled back the sleeve of her sweater. He broke it though, eyes locking onto the scars he had never seen before. She must use makeup to cover them whenever she wasn’t wearing a sweater, that had to be the reason, that had to be the reason why he’d never noticed, _how could he not have noticed?_

There were dimensions where it was possible, _physically possible_ , for a heart to break through the power of emotion. He’d watched it happen. It wasn’t like glass, the human heart could never be that delicate. It was...the best way to describe it was like magma. Magma encased in a thin crust. Pulsing, beating. It would always crack first, hairline fractures crawling over and the magma underneath glowing through. It had been strange, to see a euphemism come to life, but at the time Ford had scoffed it, for how could emotional pain compare to physical? Time had taught him his lesson, and now seemed to drive it home just one more time; he could feel his heart _crack._

He couldn’t even speak, he could only stare helplessly at the scars that shouldn’t be on Mabel’s wrists, why, why, _why_ were they there?

She answered his unasked question, gently running her fingers over her own scars, looking at them with an expression he couldn’t read.

“Part of the reason Mom and Dad sent us up here was to give me a ‘change of pace’,” She explained quietly, “They thought it would help. And it did, I was so _happy_ , I hadn’t felt like that in…in a while. It wasn’t too long ago they found out--Dipper saw and told them, otherwise they probably wouldn’t have. No matter how much I smiled or laughed, no one else would notice but I just...couldn’t feel it anymore. I didn’t know why. I just...couldn’t _feel_ anything. That’s why...it felt like the only way to make myself _feel_.”

She looked sidelong up at him with a sympathetic expression, like they were prison-mates, exchanging details of what they were in for. Ford glanced down at the scars in parallel running down his wrist and forearm; some were covered by other scars, but many were still visible.

“Sometimes it was the only way to know if I was even _real,_ ” He murmured, “Sometimes it was the only way to tell if I was dreaming or not,” He sighed and looked away. “But...but most of them were because I hated myself. I had done so much wrong, it felt...like the only way to atone.”

A shaky sniff brought his attention back to Mabel. Her eyes were watering, and she was trembling, and slowly she pushed the sleeve up on her other arm.

“Me too.” As soon as the words left her mouth she looked away, burying her face in her shoulder.

As soon as the words left her mouth Ford’s heart _shattered_.

He couldn’t find his voice, all he had were actions. He moved so hastily his book was knocked to the floor, forgotten. Mabel didn’t even have the chance to react before she was being lifted out of her seat, held in her Great Uncle’s arms for a few seconds before being set on the table, if only because he could inspect her arm better from there.

These scars couldn’t be more than a few days old, barely healed. He traced over the thin scabs lightly, over and over again, maybe because some part of him believed that after swiping his thumb over it it would have vanished like a magic trick. But Mabel pulled away from the contact, tugged her arm free and shoved the sweater sleeve down once more. No longer stuck staring at her scars in horror, he looked up to her. She was crying.

Ford felt _helpless_ , even as he finally found his voice.

“Mabel, Mabel--wh--why would--what could you possibly have to--to atone for?” His voice was hoarse, his eyes were watering. “You just saved the world.”

“I’m the reason it needed to be saved in the first place!” The girl cried, beginning to sob. “I was so selfish and _stupid_ \--I was _angry_ that summer was ending! All that mattered to me was just a ‘little more summer’--I was so immature! I just--a stuttery time traveler who’s already tried to kill us twice shows up and says ‘ooh I can give you more summer, just give me that cool thing in your brother’s bag’ _of course_ I should just trust him right off the bat--I was--I was so _dumb_. All I was thinking about w-was myself and--and--so many people got hurt.”

Ford grimaced, knowing full well what the ‘cool thing’ pertained to.

“Oh, Mabel--you--you can’t blame yourself for that. You had no idea what the rift was or what it was capable of. I didn’t tell you--and I made Dipper promise not to tell anyone. If anything, it's my fault for not trusting you.”

“Augh, but what would have happened if you _had_? You don't know! I still could have been stupid enough to give it to Bill. And even if it hadn't been B-Bill, why should I have trusted _Blendin Blandin_ of all people!? Ugh--this--this stupid summer was the first time I’d felt normal--in so long! And I know it was the m-medication but through some idiotic form of association I just couldn't let go of _summer_. I get the first chance at being normal and I just--I just _screwed it up_! I _can’t be normal!_ ” The girl screamed in frustration. “That unicorn was right: I’m a t-terrible person! I’m just a stupid waste of space!”

“ _Hey!_ ” Stan spoke before Ford had the chance to, drawn into the kitchen by Mabel’s shouting. His fists were clenched and his eyes were narrowed, and there was anger in him but it was only borne of concern. “You are _not_ a waste of space!”

“I’m the reason you had to--to get your mind w-w- _wiped_!” Mabel threw her arms wide.

“And I’m still here, aren’t I?” Stan retorted, walking over. “If I recall correctly, if it hadn’t been for _you_ firing spraypaint into Bill’s eye and running off with Dipper, me n’ Ford wouldn’t have had the chance to actually pull off that plan. Heck, if it hadn’t been for you, who’s to say we would have been able to rescue Ford at all? You were the one who thought of using the mindscape to save him.”

“He’s right, Mabel. You were just as instrumental to saving the world as the rest of us.” Ford nodded. He held her hands in his, even as they shook. It was hard not to shake himself; Mabel shouldn’t be thinking like this, Mabel shouldn’t be hating herself this much ( _she hates herself too much like Stan, why must they blame themselves for everything_ ).

“More than that, if it weren’t for you Ford wouldn’t even be here.” Stan added, pulling up a chair and sitting next to Ford. “You kept the portal open for him. I don’t care what some stupid unicorn says--why should a unicorn have any say about what makes a human good anyways, that’s just dumb--you’re a good person, Mabel. You’re worth the world.”

“You don’t understand.” She mumbled, trying to pull away from the contact, trying to retreat into her sweater. Ford refused to let go, and Stan laid a comforting hand on her knee. His expression mirrored Ford’s, desperate concern and frantic caring.

“I’m...I was so _terrible_.” She sobbed.

“Mabel, no--”

“I was!” She cut Stan off. “Bill put me in my own little reality bubble--and--and I _loved_ it! It was everything I could have wanted, I had friends, I felt _normal_ , even m-my scars were gone!” Mabel finally yanked her hands free and waved her arms, devastated, “And I was going to _s-stay_ there! I was just going to let Bill t-take over the world, because that fantasy was so amazing, I felt like I’d n-never been so h-happy in my life. I…” Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “I didn’t even care about any of you, n-not...not even Dipper. I just m-m-made a ‘cooler’ copy of him! _Augh_!”

She broke off with a wail, yanking her hands through her hair. Ford immediately rushed to pull her hands away, lest she start hurting herself. He pulled her off the table and into his arms, holding her close on his lap, wishing to all the heavens that he could scare her monsters away. No one this young should have monsters like that to begin with. He shared a broken look with Stan; his brother was just as upset, but more--Ford could tell by the white knuckle grip on his thigh. He knew his twin well enough to know that Stan was wishing to all the heavens that he could tear Bill apart, again and again and _again_ for what he did, for what he did to all of them. Ford wished that too, but his priority was Mabel. He hushed her, trying to be as soothing as he knew how.

“Mabel, Mabel, darling, that’s not--none of that is your fault.” He murmured, gently running a hand through her hair. “I know it's hard to believe, but it's not. That's what Bill does: he manipulates everything around you and makes you think it's your fault.”

“B-but...but I still _want_ it.” Mabel cried into his shoulder. “I _miss_ M-MabelLand. I was so happy and okay, and I never felt empty or wrong and now that everything's back to normal, I'm just--just _not_. I'm--I’m going back. I'm going b-back to when I was empty and numb! I’m r-relapsing! I'm not hungry anymore and I sleep so much and I can't get motivated and I--I don't want to go back!”

“Mabel, honey, what about--what about your medicine? Is it not helping?” Stan asked gently. She rubbed her eyes and looked up at him.

“I--I haven't--I don't know where it is. I can't find it anywhere. It must have got lost during Weirdmageddon. I d-didn't want to tell you b-because then y-you’d call mom and d-dad, and I'd be sent home, and--and I don't want t-to go home yet either!” Her hands twisted in Ford’s shirt. Ford watched as Stan’s face fell.

“Oh kiddo…” He murmured, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, well, that explains a bit, at least.” Ford said, sighing faintly with relief. He pulled Mabel away a bit so he could look her in the eye.

“Mabel, I want you to know, it's _okay_ that you relapsed. We’re not angry, just concerned. We want to help, because we love you, that's all. And it's okay--what you’re going through is very, very hard. But I have a bit of good news: all you’re experiencing is discontinuation symptoms.”

“Huh?”

“It's just what happens when you go off your medication, Mabel. The lack of appetite, the excessive sleeping, all of it is just a symptom. A proper relapse would take months to occur. All of these symptoms should go away quite quickly once you start taking your medication again.”

“R-really?” She looked so hopeful, it damn near made Ford start crying all over again.

“Yes, yes!” He cupped her cheeks. “And no matter what Mabel, you’re strong. One of the strongest people I’m _honored_ to know. And you’re going to make it through this, I promise.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. She gave him a small smile in return, but she didn't look very believing. Gently he took one of her arms; he didn't push the sleeve up, but patted her wrist softly.

“And remember, dear. They show that you’ve been through a lot, but they also show that you’re still here.” He said. Her eyes widened, and watered again. But this time her smile was genuine. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug, which he gladly returned.

“I love you.” He heard her say.

“I love you too.” He said. They jumped as another pair of arms wrapped around them both.

“I ain't gonna say it, so don't ask.” Stan said gruffly. Ford could hear him sniffling. Mabel shoved at him lightly.

“Boooooooooo.”

“Alright, alright.” Stan huffed, giving in way too easily. “I love ya kid. That ain't ever gonna change.”

“What, I don't get included?” Ford teased. He felt a light slap upside the head.

“Love ya too, _nerd_.”

Mabel giggled, but Ford could still hear her sniffling, and could feel dampness spreading down his shirt.

“Is there anything that you want to do, Mabel, that’ll make you feel better? You could stay with me, or you could watch Ducktective.” He suggested as Stan let go of them.

“I like both of those.” She mumbled. Ford smiled, and rose to his feet with her in his arms.

“Then we can do both of those.”

“B-but weren't you reading?”

“I was spending time with my grand-niece.” He said simply. “Now, I know you may not feel like eating, but you should try. Does bread sound simple enough?”

He felt Mabel nod. He looked at Stan, and Stan immediately nodded and went to the cabinet.

“I’m going to settle in in the family room.” He said. “See if I can find any reruns.”

“Alright. I call dibs on the ambiguous skull.” Stan said, handing Mabel a few slices of bread, and holding a glass of water for her. Ford shot him a grateful look--which Stan shrugged off. It's not like it was any question, after all.

Mabel didn't really watch, once Ford was seated in the couch and had turned the TV on. She nestled into his side, occasionally taking small bites of bread and sips of water whenever Stan handed her the glass. But he noticed she never seemed to focus on the television, at least, not for long. Every now and then Ford would feel his shirt grow damp, but when he asked she always burrowed further into his side, so eventually he just let it happen; he rubbed her back soothingly and let her cry it out.

“How did you get yourself to stop?” She once asked him quietly. He sighed, and chose his words carefully.

“By using the littlest reasons...the smallest excuses. That there wasn't enough time today, or that I couldn't risk contaminating any experiments. Sometimes I drew on my skin instead. Or used an ice cube. Sometimes I still do. And sometimes, none of it works. It's not a...it’s not an easy thing to break. No one can blame us for that.”

She didn't respond after that, but Ford felt her hands tighten in his shirt.

And always Stan watched over her like a hawk, over both of them like a silent sentinel, ready to leap to action if something in the situation changed.

 _‘Why didn't you tell me?’_ Ford mouthed to him at one point. Stan shrugged. At first Ford interpreted it as Stan was unable to remember why, but then Stan mouthed back.

_‘Not my choice. Mabel wasn’t ready to tell you.”_

Well, there wasn't anything wrong with that. Ford relaxed, keeping Mabel close, all three eventually being lulled into the drone of the TV. Dipper came home not much later. He was slightly battered and tired, but smiling. That is, until he laid eyes on Mabel. There seemed to be a silent exchange between the two, then Dipper climbed up onto the armchair and curled up around his sister without a word.

At some point Waddles came in and curled up by Ford’s feet. At some point both Mabel and Dipper fell asleep, curled around each other and against Ford. Ford found himself watching them more than the TV. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the rise and fall of their shoulders, the kids that meant so much to him so quickly, the two little lives that he would lay down his own to protect.

A hand, much larger than his niece’s, suddenly traced over the still-exposed scars on his wrist. He tensed for a brief moment before realizing who it was. He looked over to Stanley, praying that he wasn't blaming himself for _those_ , those ones he couldn't blame himself for at all.

But no, Stan didn't look guilty. He looked upset, but when he met Ford’s eyes his hand slid down to tangle with Ford’s. There was a small smile, and there was a look of pure support and love.

It nearly made him cry.

He held onto Stan’s hand tightly, giving him a weak smile of his own, and together they watched over the kids.

They were a family. Maybe they had been broken, maybe they had gone through things no other family had gone through ( _should go through_ ), but they were a family, and they were _his_ family. They’d stand together from now until the end of time.

 _And if one of us falls_ , Ford glanced down at his own scars, then back to Mabel, _We’ll be there to carry you_.

 _From now until the end of time_.

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! Another GFA done! I hope you all enjoyed (and don't blame me for another angsty one, you guys voted for this)!
> 
> I will say this: I know this contains some sensitive material, but this is a headcanon that I've had for Mabel since I first started watching the show, and it is almost completely based on someone who is incredibly close to me who experienced something similar. This was my chance to explore that headcanon in writing, and I apologize if I offend anyone; I tried to handle the scenes in the best way I knew how. 
> 
> That being said, it's time for another GFA! 
> 
> You can vote from the titles below from here until Sunday, April 3! You can vote by commenting here or on the corresponding tumblr post for this fic (my tumblr url is same as AO3 handle)
> 
> The titles are:
> 
> The Adventure with the Dancing  
> The Adventure with the Pie  
> The Adventure with the Witch  
> The Adventure with the Waterfall  
> The Adventure with the Salsa  
> The Adventure with the Wings  
> The Adventure with the Kidnapping  
> The Adventure with the Hijacking
> 
> So go ahead and vote, and thank you all so much for reading!
> 
>  **EDIT:** Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments and votes! THE VOTING WINDOW IS NOW CLOSED. The next GFA will be....*drumroll*...
> 
> The Adventure with the Dancing! Stay tuned!


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